"Tell me about the red balloon." The story was Danny's safety blanket.

When the days got too long, when he drank too much, smoked too much, or had a bad trip, this was the story that brought him back. Even on the worst days when his mind played tricks on him, convincing him he was unworthy of those around him, this was the hand extended, asking for comfort.

His warm breath flowed over my neck as he sunk into the pillow while slinging a tattoo-adorned arm over my waist like a heavy belt. My skin instantly became sticky in the summer humidity of the Maine coast.

"He is tall and slender," I began as I snuggled into him. "As I curl into his chest, he wraps his long arms around me. I feel safe and unconditionally loved."

If I had paused at that moment, the awe that I had only known Danny for a few weeks would have filled the gap, but this was already our routine. It filled a void for me just as much as it soothed my dear, sweet Danny.

"And the balloon..." He prodded with a yawn. Even on the verge of sleep, his impatience seeped through like a groggy child on Christmas morning.

"Just before I wake up, I open my eyes. I'm still wrapped perfectly in his arms; my head bent to see a small slice of his torso. All I see is a lone red balloon tattoo. Then I wake up."

This dream had clung to me for as long as I could remember. It mixed with visions of magical lands made of candy and endless reading time when I was younger. As I grew older, this faceless boy was the unattainable crush my mind would linger on in the bleary moments between sleep and awake. I once told my beloved Nana about this vision of a boy over a bubbling pot of chocolate destined to be fudge during one of our many cooking adventures. Nana smiled at me in that way that made me feel like the world was always sunny, happy, and filled with small quiet moments that made perfect postcard memories.

"That's the feeling of love," her voice was barely a whisper as she dried her hands on a blue striped tea towel. Then her smile turned impish in a way that always made a giggle bubble like the fudge and added, "a boy with a tattoo."

Danny was the only other person I told about the red balloon. Not that I kept it secret, it was more important than a secret; it was sacred. Too many fingertips would tarnish the meaning and hope.

"We'll find your red balloon, Em, I promise." And with that, Danny's breath became steady as he drifted off to sleep.

I closed my eyes and listened to his rhythmic breathing for a while as my mind wandered between memories of my Nana. My eyelids became heavier and heavier with every sewing project and forest walk I recalled until I slowly slumped deeper into the bed. I moved delicately as Danny unconsciously adjusted to me without disturbing his sleep. In the safety of his arms, my mind shifted to my last memory of my cherished Nana. Her hands bobbing around my head as she pinned and curled my hair for my first middle school dance. In the mirror's reflection, I watched the back of her hands work. My memory lingered on the sheen on her skin; it was like the soft glow of tree lights reflecting off wrapped Christmas presents. The next day I woke up to learn my Nana had passed. No one had ever felt as close to me as Nana; no one until Danny.

Danny and I floated by each other in life for months; exchanging a few words at the small designer coffee shop I worked at in the Old Port of Portland. Over-tourism affected perhaps no place in the U.S. more than my bursting city. It was just a small salt-stained city on the coast that somehow became a destination for foodies, beer connoisseurs, and coffee zealots. Day-trippers, weekenders, and cruise-ship throngs mingled with the suits and ties of local professionals as they strangled the cobblestoned waterfront's nooks and crannies. Even the occasional pack of poorly chaperoned students on history walks would mix into the fray.

My shop, Shor's, was a small oasis from the crowds. The little shoebox-shaped space limited patrons to an overly sunny 3-stool bar looking out a large picture window to the street outside. The lack of a shade was deliberate. Shor's was not the typical 1990s café welcoming you with overstuffed leather furniture and free wi-fi. Shor's was a snob's shop of overpriced and over-caffeinated tiny drinks with Italian names that no one was ever certain they pronounced correctly. "Get your drink and go" was an idea I had for the chalkboard sign out front one afternoon; they ever asked me to do the sign again.

Danny was among my regulars. I didn't have many since I only worked on weekends. Most of the patrons were local professionals working regular business hours. I was just on the cusp of my high school graduation, so I only worked weekends. Once I recognized Danny from the pack, I connected his routine. He came in mid-afternoon every Saturday. He always stuck out from the rest of the crowd with his lanky 6'4" frame and pale-blond hair that had a peachy hue when the sun hit it just right. It would carelessly fall over his icy blue eyes. He had a similar uniform each day: jeans, Nikes, and either a white tee or tank. He would order a regular coffee with room. Most would assume the room was for cream, which would have been unlawful enough among the Java Jones surrounding him, but it was reserved for sugar: copious amounts of sugar. I nicknamed him Sugar Bear, but wouldn't dare say it to him. He had a coolness to him that was daunting. His mind always seemed distracted by some distant pull, but on the rare occasion that his piercing blue eyes would flicker to mine, they hypnotized me.

We operated in polite autonomy until one late-spring afternoon when I was on break in a nearby concrete park. It felt scorching despite the breezy low-60's temp, mainly because it was one of spring's first warm days. My thick winter skin had not softened to the warm temps yet, so 60 degrees felt 80 degrees. Half the city joined me, converging in the tiny city block park to enjoy the warmth. I struck it lucky when a couple pushed off from one of the strategically placed rocks around the area. I quickly sat down, sprawling my tiny 5'4, 110-pound body as much as possible to announce I owned this stone. My natural introversion took over as I slid my sunglasses over my eyes and turned my headphones up a couple of ticks. The music blared as the stone park's permeating warmth melted from beneath me while the sun baked me from above.

After a few minutes, I felt the annoying presence of someone trying to steal a corner of my clearly claimed rock. The sudden intrusion of my personal space immediately set off my short fuse for strangers. My headphones painfully tugged at my ears as I ripped them off and shot up, my mind and mouth already forming a tirade of swears when my eyes fell on Sugar Bear.

"Do you mind, coffee girl?" He finished his sentence with a head nod that acted as more of a virtual shove.

Without even realizing it, I shuffled over to the side, allowing him to sit. I never noticed how smooth his voice was; it was like the steady flow of a calm stream. Drugstore sunglasses hid his eyes, but I wouldn't have seen them anyway as he faced the street. I followed his gaze, finding myself hypnotized by the sunlight bouncing off the passing cars in an organic light show.

"Danny," he hunched down so I could hear his low murmur, as though his name were a secret he only wanted me to know.

"Emma," I struggled to match his mysterious tone.

A breeze whipped his scent of cigarettes, peppermint, and weed across me like a piece of cool silk; my mind wandered to my lack of vices. I had never bought into drinking, drugs, or smoking. It wasn't because of some keen sense of morality, but more because of its engagement: knowing a person to get the goods from, communicating, and connecting. My biggest vice was indeed my introversion. In my ultra-peppy social world, that was corruption worse than any. My dislike of the social norm of recharging via companionship should have made me an outcast. But it didn't; I suffered through fully booked weekends with parties and activities, my lunch table didn't have a spare seat, and my golden-boy boyfriend looked at me with the right mix of awe and respect. I was an introvert hiding in extrovert clothing.

Danny leaned back on his hands, forming an obtuse angle with his body. His proximity washed over me like an icy February wind. It was a tank day, so I collected myself and studied the tattoos on his arm: a blue moon on his shoulder, a spider web covering his elbow, and a trumpet running down his lower arm. Mixed between them were various smaller ones: a pot leaf, a couple of musical notes, a glass of orange juice. The muscles in his arm contracted as he shifted to gaze at me over his sunglasses.

"See something interesting?" His voice punched with flirtation and tease.

"Do you have a red balloon?" It fell out before I could stop it, and I immediately cursed myself for being so random.

"What, like the It clown?" His words were fast, but not curt. They came out strung together like lyrics.

"No... well yeah. Something like that. I've seen one somewhere. Thought it was cool." I was ready to go back to work and deal with coffee snobs over this wrong-way conversation.

"No, I don't have a red balloon tattoo."

I didn't wait for him to add anything else, nor did I look for what I was sure was an amused smile on his face. I just slid off the rock and scurried back to work, feeling his eyes follow me down the street.